On the Wednesday Train
by xerxia31
Summary: Years after the war, Katniss receives a visitor she's not sure she's ready to see. Canon compliant post-Mockingjay.


Years after the war, Katniss receives a visitor she's not sure she's ready to see.

Notes:

Canon post-MJ, pre-epilogue. For talesofpanem on tumblr

o-o-o

I sit on the porch swing Peeta made last fall, reading and re-reading the few simple lines scrawled on the thick Capitol paper trembling in my hands. I want to see you. And from the one person I never thought would write them.

It's been more than five years since the end of the rebellion, more than five years since I killed Coin, more than five years since I was exiled to District Twelve. More than five years since I've seen my former best friend.

More than five years since he killed my baby sister.

Behind me, our cottage door creaks open on hinges that I mentally remind myself to oil. "Are you hungry?" Peeta's voice is low, tentative. He knows what's in the letter, was beside me when I opened it. But like always, he's giving me the space to come to terms with its contents on my own, no pressure. Peeta never pressures me into anything. I glance over my shoulder at him and he smiles softly. "Dinner is ready, if you want."

I toss the letter onto the table that rests just inside the door as I follow my husband into the cozy little home we built together a couple of years ago. If the past five years have taught me anything, it's that I can now afford to think before I act. I don't have to answer the letter now.

I don't have to answer the letter ever.

o-o-o

It takes a month.

A month of thinking. Of reliving that awful day in the city circle, of nightmares and tears and hours spent staring into the void. Of missing Prim so much that my very bones ache with it.

A month of long walks in the forest. Of reliving those quiet moments of innocence, of brotherhood, of shared responsibility but also shared triumph, so sweet in memory but gone forever.

A month of yelling and of whispered conversations. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to see him," I confess one night, long after we've gone to bed. We're on top of the sheets in deference to the heat, a faint breeze wafting through the open window to alight on sweat-sheened skin.

"You're strong enough to do anything," Peeta reminds me. "And you don't have to do it alone." He's right, of course. There aren't many in District 12, even still. But the few of us who are here have built a community together. Our friends, our family of choice if not by birth.

"He hurt me." There are so many more layers to my fear, my reluctance to see Gale again. But the simplest truth is that Gale's actions hurt me terribly, irreparably.

"I know," Peeta says, tracing soothing circles on the scarred skin of my belly. "But he loved you too."

—–

He arrives on the Wednesday train, which surprises me. I'd thought a fancy government job in District Two would have afforded him the means to travel via hovercraft, or maybe even private car. Instead, Gale is taking a train along the same tracks that twice hurtled Peeta and me towards certain death.

We don't meet him at the station. I pace our porch until the train whistle echoes through the district. Then I switch to pacing our small living room.

Peeta, though outwardly calm, has covered our kitchen table with baked goods, the scents of hot yeast and sugar filling our home even with all of the windows flung wide. He's sheepish, but I know how keeping his hands and mind busy helps him fight off the false memories that still plague him from time to time, memories that so often involve Gale and me and things that never happened between us.

And things that did.

Despite his clear inner turmoil, Peeta abandons his baking to pace with me. "What could he possibly want after all of this time?" I mutter. It's a hypothetical question; I could have asked in my return letter weeks earlier but I didn't. I only wrote 'okay', and left it at that.

Peeta wraps his arms around me and kisses my temple. "I don't know, love," he says, the same answer he's given me every time I've asked. "But we'll find out soon enough."

I know the district like the back of my hand, know exactly how long it takes to walk from the train station to the little cottage Peeta and I built about a half mile from where the fence once stood. That span comes and goes, and then a second of equal length. Peeta and I stop pacing, and eventually move out onto our porch, settling into the swing together, his arm still holding me steady, my head now settled onto his shoulder. "Maybe he changed his mind," I say, voicing the thought I know we've both had. "Or missed his connection?"

Peeta merely hums above me, a sound that could be agreement but I suspect is not, and sets the swing in motion with a push of his good leg. And he's right, because only a few minutes later a long shadow turns down our walkway. Gale, silhouetted by the sun, strange and yet somehow familiar too.

And not alone.

Peeta's smile is genuine and delighted as he takes in Gale's companion, my expression is likely the confused scowl I've spent much of my life wearing.

She has straight black hair that bounces with each step, and wide, wary almond-shaped eyes, so dark they glisten like wet coal in the afternoon light. As Gale approaches, she tucks her face into his shoulder shyly.

"It's good to see you," Peeta says when my own silence has stretched too long, clomping down the porch steps while I stand frozen at the top. Gale shifts the dark haired toddler on his hip to reach for Peeta's outstretched hand.

"It's been a long time." I jolt a little at Gale's voice, just the same as it always was, and yet different too. Older. More tired.

Gale's pint-sized companion peeks out at us again, gazing back and forth between Peeta and me, her little brow wrinkling. "And who is this?" Peeta asks, smiling at the little girl and ducking to her level. She reaches out to pat his golden curls before retreating again.

"This is Iris," Gale says. He turns to speak directly to her. "Can you say hello?" The fondness in his voice reminds me so much of how he always used to speak to Posy, and to Prim.

Prim.

My throat closes and heavy clouds descend over my heart. I think Peeta notices, even as distracted as he is by Iris. Peeta loves children. He'd make an incredible father, if he had a different wife. Instead, he comes back to the wife he does have, me, and wraps his arm around my shoulder again, taking some of my weight as my knees tremble.

Gale follows him up, until he's standing just feet away for the first time in so long. Solemn grey eyes regard me cautiously. "Hey Katniss," he says and a part of me is inexplicably saddened by the loss of the nickname I always hated.

"Gale," I whisper. Then nothing. We size each other up like rivals before the duel, the air between us fetid with grief and fear.

"Come inside," Peeta encourages.

We move into the living room that bears Peeta's touch on every surface, bright pictures on the walls and soft blankets tossed over the comfortable sofa and chairs. It's smaller and simpler than our old houses in Victor's Village, but palatial compared to the Seam shack where I grew up. And like all of our little house, it's warm and welcoming, just like the man who makes gentle small talk as we settle in, asking about the trip, the weather, bringing out sweet tea and plates of baked goods.

Gale sits on the couch with Iris on his lap and my gaze is drawn to her like a magnet. She's perhaps two, or maybe just a bit older, and admittedly adorable, her initial shyness already fading as she looks around curiously.

A child. Gale has a child of his own. It hits me hard, the unfairness of it. That he should have a perfect family when he stole that future from my sister. That he's built a life when there are still days I can't even get out of bed.

Peeta glances at Gale before asking, "Do you like cookies, Iris?" Gale grins, and Iris nods, a huge smile dimpling her plump cheeks. Peeta holds out a cookie, cinnamon, the kind I like best, and she takes it in that trusting way that most kids seem to exhibit with Peeta.

We fall quiet again. Gale bounces Iris on his knees while she messily devours a cookie, giggling and feeding him bites. She clearly adores him. And the way he looks at her fills my chest with an unfamiliar longing. Not for Gale, not even for a baby of my own. But for the contentment of a life I've never even wanted.

Peeta carries the conversation, telling Gale about the medicine factory that is slated to open in the fall, the influx of new people we expect will follow. Gale speaks not about his life in Two, but about the new housing going up above ground in Thirteen, now that the decontamination there is complete.

When Peeta inquires if Gale is part of that project, he shakes his head. "My mom's house will be in the first group. Rory is on one of the construction crews."

"They're not with you in Two?" I ask, the first words I've said since Peeta's return. Gale stiffens, a frown tugging at his lips.

"They're not," he says, and ever after five years I can read his pain, hear it in his gruff voice. "But I speak with them a couple of times a month." That surprises me, Gale was always so close to Hazelle, even when the mines, and then the war, took him away for so many hours, he still made time for her. I wonder why he hasn't brought them to Two.

Iris is getting restless, climbing over Gale and making little whining noises. When Peeta offers to take her to feed Haymitch's geese ("they're much tamer than the man," he assures Gale) I feel betrayed. I don't want to be alone with this stranger who isn't a stranger. So much for not having to do this alone.

Peeta takes Iris's hand, she follows him happily. It's quiet for many, many long moments, only the soft murmur of Peeta and Iris's conversation floating in from the kitchen as they gather bits of stale bread for the geese, and the wind through the willows just outside my window. The front door creaks again, announcing their departure.

Then Gale and I are alone. I shift in my chair by the fireplace, across from Gale, and really look at him.

He's well put together, nice clothing and new shoes, neatly trimmed nails with no coal dust under them. But he seems so much older than his not quite 25 years, the line between his brows a permanent feature, a weariness in his grey eyes. He regards me the same way, cataloguing the changes that five years have wrought on my own face. I know what he sees. While my face was spared in the explosion and fire all of those years ago, the burn scars that mar my arms and legs are on full display. I'm no longer self-conscious enough about them to wear long sleeves, especially in the late August heat. This is who I am, and the people of Twelve accept me, faults and all. More importantly, Peeta loves me despite everything. I have nothing to be ashamed of. And I remind myself that I have nothing to fear here either.

"How old is Iris?" I start. There are a thousand things we should be talking about, but his daughter is perhaps the easiest.

"She just turned two in April," he says.

"You didn't mention her."

He nods. "Her mother was my neighbour, in Two. She died just before Christmas. There was no one to take the baby."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "She's not your-"

"She is my daughter," he interrupts, voice hard. "In every way that matters."

I'm momentarily stunned, not just by his vehemence, but that he's taken in an orphan, and is raising her apparently alone, without her mother or his own. That's not the Gale I remember, who cared about his family, sure, but not for strangers. He never seemed upset about the kids in the community home like I was.

"She's why I'm here," he admits.

"You wanted me to meet her?" He could have just sent a photograph, like Annie did when little Finn was born.

"No, I mean, yeah, I did, but that's not what I meant," he stutters. I bite my tongue, giving him the space to sort out his thoughts. "Having her in my life…" he trails off, and stands, walking over to the window. I can see his pained expression reflected in the glass.

"I wanted you to know that I get it now," he says, still facing away. "I didn't really understand, after." He sighs, but I stay still and silent. "I felt bad." He shakes his head and turns to face me. I'm shocked to see his eyes are shimmering. "I feel bad, I feel fucking awful, about what I created with Beetee, what they used it for. But until Iris, I didn't really understand. I do now."

I frown and shake my head. Having a baby shouldn't be necessary to understand why blowing up a bunch of kids is wrong. This is ridiculous.

"I understand," he tries again, "that there are things more important than being right." He tries to clear the roughness from his throat. "Back then, I was always so angry, so damned righteous. I hated being so powerless."

"We all did," I remind him, anger in my voice. "Nothing makes you feel quite so powerless as seeing your little sister's name pulled out of a giant glass bowl. Of hearing her essentially sentenced to death."

"I know," he says softly, though he doesn't. The only person who really understands the scars I bear on my soul is Peeta. And maybe Haymitch, on his more lucid days. "Once the war started," he continues, "and we were in Thirteen, well, people started giving me a little bit of that power I craved. It was a heady experience."

"It never felt like that for me," I grumble. My experiences with the people of Thirteen were so different. I never felt like I was being given the power to change things. I felt like a tool, or a puppet.

"I know," he says again. "And that should have been my first clue. You knew, you always knew, right from the beginning, that Coin was using us."

Gale closes his eyes, head bowed while I stare, unable to absolve him. My sister is dead, as are a lot of other kids and medics. While their deaths aren't wholly his fault, his contribution is unforgivable, despite the pressure we were both under in Thirteen. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness," he whispers, as if reading my thoughts. "I just want you to know that I am so very sorry. But more than that, I understand, and I pledge to you, and to Prim, that I'm going to do everything in my power to make the world a better place."

Honestly, that still sounds like what he thought he was doing with Thirteen, and I frown. "You don't believe me?"

"I do."

"But it isn't enough?"

"I guess I don't see how it's any different. You've always wanted to change Panem, Gale. You've always wanted to forge ahead full speed and crush anything in your path" I expect him to get angry, to defend himself. Instead he smiles, wistfully.

"You're right," he says. "But it is different now. I'm different now," he emphasizes. He turns away again, leaning on the window sill. I join him, our shoulders nearly touching as we look out over my front yard, the laneway beyond it. Victor's Village is too far to see from my house, but when the wind blows just right I can hear the sounds of children playing on the green there. Not today, though. There's only somber silence. "I'm trying," he says finally, the words defeated. "I may never get it right, but I'm trying."

"I don't understand." Trying to get through to me? Trying to be a good dad? I just don't know.

"Trying to be like you. I used to think you were weak," he says, and I bristle. "I thought your compassion was cowardice." He faces me again, and this time his tears have spilled over, twin trails tracking down his cheeks. "But it's the opposite. Your compassion is your strength. It's why you both survived the Games. Why you found Peeta and nursed him back to health. Why you dragged him through the sewers instead of letting him kill himself." He turns away and I absorb his words. Compassion. It's a word I've always associated with Peeta. But maybe I have a little myself too.

"It's why you're listening to me now instead of chasing me down the lane with your bow," Gale murmurs. A reluctant smile lifts one side of my mouth. Under all the bluster, under the fancy clothes and the fancy haircut, he's still Gale, still that boy who was once my best friend. I'm not so petulant that I can't admit, if only to myself, that I've missed him.

He must see the softening of my expression because he laughs quietly and wipes his face roughly with a sleeve. He doesn't ask me for forgiveness, which makes me glad. I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive him yet. But maybe someday.

We watch the trees wave in the light breeze in silence that feels far more companionable until toddler squeals float through the woods, approaching. Peeta and Iris returning. Reality returning.

"Are you okay, Katniss?" I know he means more than am I all right with him being here and the things we've talked about.

"I am. We are," I say, meaning me and Peeta. And maybe meaning Gale too.

They stay only a few minutes longer before Gale takes his tired little girl to the boarding house where they're spending the night. Peeta offers our spare room, but I'm not sad when Gale declines. We made progress today, but I'm not ready for anything more just yet.

We watch their retreat from our porch, Peeta's arm again wrapped around me.

"You were so brave today," Peeta says when they turn the corner and disappear from view. I nod, turning into his arms, inhaling his scent. "And so was he."

"So was he," I agree.


End file.
